


l’amour sanglant

by crimsvn



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Human GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Human/Vampire Relationship, M/M, Mild Blood, Porn With Plot, Vampire Bites, Vampire Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:20:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29329968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsvn/pseuds/crimsvn
Summary: George was not the biggest fan of blood, but Dream had a funny way of twisting that opinion.The iron taste of his own blood couldn’t be anything less than desirable to George, when it came from Dream’s mouth, his lips, his tongue. When derived from a place of pleasure and pure euphoria, from bliss and mutual benefit—blood seemed like the most appetizing thing in the world.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 324





	l’amour sanglant

**Author's Note:**

> title means "bloody love" which doesn't sound as nice in english as it does french LOL
> 
> this is basically just playing off the idea that a human gains sexual pleasure from a vampire sucking their blood. yk. the works.

_Blood._

It wasn’t a _fear_ of his per se—but it made him squeamish. Uncomfortable. The thought of being around, or _seeing_ the warm, thick liquid made George sick to his stomach. Lightheaded. Because he knew, instinctually well, that blood was meant to remain _inside_ one’s body.

With Dream, though, it was different.

The iron taste of his own blood couldn’t be anything less than desirable to George, when it came from Dream’s mouth, his lips, his tongue. When derived from a place of pleasure and pure euphoria, from bliss and mutual benefit—blood seemed like the most appetizing thing in the world.

The deep, intimate moments they shared together most nights brought George to a new understanding of the vampire, one more profound. A special bond lay between them, one unlike George could ever hold with another person. Another _human._ What Dream could offer him was immeasurable, incomparable.

It was late at night. Clouds fogged over the waning moon, and an eerie, ethereal glow was cast on the room through the crossed windows of Dream’s estate. A single candle sits beside George as he writes out a letter, dipping his quill in ink every so often. He writes to a friend back in England, about nothing in particular. George simply liked to keep in touch—and quiet, serene moments like these were just perfect to commit words to paper. 

While most would complain, George was gracious to have taken on some of Dream’s bizarre habits, effectively becoming a sort of honorary creature of the night himself. Sometimes he misses the copious amounts of sunlight a normal human’s day offered, but being with Dream was more than enough to compensate for the dull tug on his heart.

“What are you writing?” Dream asks, startling George. He hadn’t heard the vampire creep up on him but, then again, he often didn’t. Dream’s arms drape over George’s shoulders, his weight pressing into George’s back. His nose trails along George’s neck, taking in the human’s scent. 

George subconsciously leans away for better access, even if Dream’s intentions did not lie in quenching his hunger at the moment. He sets his quill down. “A letter. To Wilbur. He’s been wondering how things are.”

“And how are they?” Dream inquires. His voice is low, gravelly. It was likely the vampire already knew George’s answer, but George plays along anyway.

“Wonderful,” George says, just as quiet. “I couldn’t ask for better.”

Dream slips away then, and crosses the room. He stands at the window, observing the night’s sky. The light of the moon is not kind to his pallor, but Dream looks beautiful regardless. Stunning. All sharp lines and the posture of a royal, hands clasped behind his back. George’s eyes trail the lines of his jaw, his shoulders, his arms, and down his legs.

George’s mouth feels dry.

“Were you looking for something?” George asks. He blows out the candle, fearing it may be left unattended very soon. The letter is forgotten as George stands from the desk, stalking up to Dream. He hangs off the man’s shoulder, trailing a finger across his chest. “Looking for me?”

Dream looks down at George, his green eyes piercing, and cunning, though they hold a hidden warmth reserved only for George. He smiles, just enough to reveal sharp canines that George had grown all too familiar with. “Perhaps I was bored.”

“With your work?”

“With my work,” Dream confirms. “But if you’re busy…”

“Never.” George shakes his head. “Not ever, for you.”

Dream shifts, lifting George’s chin. George embraces the touch. It is welcomed. It always was.

The vampire ducks down to capture George in a kiss, his sharp teeth scraping against George’s lips. George lets his eyes fall shut, melting into the contact. His arms snake their way around Dream’s neck, as Dream’s hands find their way to George’s hips.

Dream pauses. His irises are lustful, _ravished._ “May I?”

George bites back a grin as he nods, exposing his neck to Dream once more. 

The blond leans down, licking around the spot he often bit into, scarring surely littering the area. Not that George minded. It feels like nothing more than like the prick of a mosquito bite, as Dream’s saliva numbs the skin and muscle. The initial pulling at the tissue and veins was something George would never get over as Dream began sucking, _feasting_ , but it was always forgotten when the feeling was then accompanied by other blood rushing south, and a curling, fluttery feeling brewing in the pit of George’s stomach. His knees are weak.

“Dream,” he rasps. His fingers tangle their way into the vampire’s hair, as if to pull him closer. George lets out a moan after a sharp, electric jolt is sent down his spine. _“Dream.”_

Dream pulls away. His lips are crimson with George’s blood. A slow drop of the liquid dribbles down his chin. George wipes it away with his thumb, tracing along the corner of Dream’s lips, where the vampire then turns to suck it off. “Too much?”

“Never,” George breathes. “Not ever, for you.”

Dream laughs softly at the answer, at words already spoken once before. He brushes a hand through George’s hair before it comes around to cup his cheek. “You’re so beautiful, you know that?”

George grins lazily. “Not as beautiful as you.”

Dream pauses. “Continue?”

“Of course.”

Dream returns to the spot on George’s neck, licking the wound for remaining blood, though he does not bite down again. He whispers into the shell of George’s ear, “Perhaps we should bring this somewhere more comfortable.”

George angles his head to kiss Dream once more, though this time the metallic taste of his own blood overwhelms his senses. He swipes a thumb over his bottom lip once they’re apart again, discovering the red liquid to have now tainted his own skin. George’s hand finds its way to Dream, interlacing his fingers with the vampire. His skin is cool, though not clammy. It was a stark contrast to the human warmth of George’s own body. 

Dream drags him from the study and into the nearest bedroom, one of many in the mansion where they resided. George wasn’t quite sure why Dream chose to live so luxurious, however—he never had guests over, nor did he have servants. So why he occupied such a large, empty estate would forever be a mystery George.

He can’t say he doesn’t appreciate it though, as he straddles Dream on a lavish, soft bed a few rooms over, with linen sheets and a duvet filled with goose down. It was infinitely better in comparison to the straw mattress George had slept on for most of his life, back home in England. 

Dream massages gentle circles into his hips, looking up at George with hooded lids, a smirk toying on his lips. “Lovely,” Dream says, admiring. His fingers crawl underneath George’s shirt, cold and calloused against his skin. “Would you…?”

George removes his shirt without another word, without hesitance. It’s discarded somewhere in the room and he feels exposed, at first, as he sometimes did under the watchful gaze of the vampire, but George supposes that was simply by nature. His instincts recognized that Dream was a dangerous creature. Not something he should associate with, and yet here he was. Here he had been. And he indulged in every second of it.

His mind was still hazy with want as Dream brings him close once more, nosing along his collarbone. He nips at the delicate skin, as if testing where he wanted to bite, drink, _scar._ That was the thing about humans, Dream liked to point out every so often to George—they were fragile. Easily disturbed. George would always roll his eyes and argue that _he wasn’t fragile, you were human once, too,_ but Dream would wave him off and say, _maybe, but much too long ago to remember._

Dream doesn’t numb the sensitive area this time, instead biting down without remorse, sinking his teeth deep into George. It hurts at first, of course, but after the initial sting, George feels like he’s melting into a puddle of nothingness. He does his best to keep himself sitting up, but George feels like he’s floating within minutes. Light as a feather. Spineless.

Dream maneuvers them so that George is now lying down on the bed, the vampire still attached to his collarbone. He’s also still clothed, too, which is unfortunate. George paws at Dream’s shirt.

“Off,” he murmurs, drifting from full consciousness. “Wanna…”

Dream detaches himself from George, sitting back on his heels as he straddles the human. He rips the shirt off, if only for flair and a show of strength. George wants to laugh, however, it still never failed to amaze him just how _strong_ Dream was. Even if it had only been a measly piece of fabric.

Dream returns to his collarbone, though not to continue feeding, but rather to begin pressing gentle, caring kisses down George’s torso. He begins at the bite, slowly but surely migrating down, down, _down._ His fangs tease George’s skin every time, taunting almost, with the possibility of digging in. Dream stops at George hipbone before sitting up again, his hands moving to the hem of George’s trousers. 

“Is this alright?” Dream asks quietly, almost as if he were afraid of the world hearing him. George thinks he looks otherworldly in the glow of the moonlight, blood soaking his lips a dark currant colour. George nods, mouth agape, now more than wanting the feeling of Dream touching him. _Fucking_ him.

Dream slides George’s trousers off with caution, almost sensually, a contradiction to the rough removal of his own clothing. Dream then dips back down again, nipping at George’s thighs. George gasps as he bites down on a particularly sensitive area for more blood to consume. The feeling was heavenly.

George’s chest heaves, overwhelmed by the pure ecstasy he felt coursing through his veins. His cock twitches in deep desire and interest, but Dream does nothing to help, too engulfed in his own world. Or perhaps he was waiting on the right moment.

 _“Dream,”_ George whines. “Please.”

Dream only grins, licking a stripe up George’s leg, blood smearing along with it. George should feel gross as a cause of it, but he _doesn’t._

Blood was a different experience with Dream.

“Please,” George whimpers, begging. “Dream—”

“What would you like, George?” Dream asks. “What do you need?”

George takes a trembling breath in. “I want you to fuck me, Dream.”

Dream tilts his head, and almost evilly he says, “What is it you want, George? Tell me again.”

George groans. His body ached to be touched. “Want you to _fuck me,_ Dream,” he repeats, this time with as much conviction and urgency as he could muster, which wasn’t a lot.

Dream licks his lips, and the blood disappears to his tongue, no longer staining his mouth. “Of course,” he whispers. “Anything for you.”

Dream sheds his own trousers, and as always he’s a sight to behold. George was growing impatient.

“Turn around,” Dream commands, and George does as he’s told without complaint. 

“Good,” Dream praises.

George cannot see what Dream is planning, nor what he was _doing,_ but he could guess, as a finger, then two are pressed into George’s hole, wet with spit and blood from Dream’s tongue. Dream works him open slowly, carefully, _lovingly,_ though it almost feels like torture by the time Dream pushes a third finger in.

 _“Dream,”_ George pleads. “Please,” he says again. The two words felt like a mantra. It was like he was a broken record with nothing more to share with his audience. Dream hesitates, as if he considers complying with George’s wishes, but he ultimately doesn’t. Not quite yet.

Instead, he continues his work, pressing as far in as he can. George was moments away from going limp, collapsing into the bed sheets. Not only from the blood loss, but from the _venom_ that made him feel better than anything ever could. He was high off Dream. Addicted. Couldn’t get enough—which must’ve been why he still put up with Dream’s teasing every time. His torment. The wait he forced upon George before he was allowed to feel Dream _inside him,_ and not just leaving tiny marks on the exterior of his body, that would only fade into scars invisible to the naked eye.

But then, as if by a miracle, Dream is removing his fingers and his cock is being thrusted deep inside George with little warning. George clenches the sheets like a lifeline, tight and white-knuckled as Dream gradually increases pace. Dream’s grip on his hips is severe, _deathly,_ and sure to leave bruises for the coming days.

George feels a sharp pain on his lower back, and he’s melting all over again as Dream bites in once more, though he doesn’t remain attached for nearly as long. George’s cock is flush against his stomach, still untouched and aching. He moans into the linen, undignified, falling apart, as Dream adjusts himself to fuck George at a different angle, the perfect one to rail into the human, brushing his prostate every time Dream pushes back in, and pushes back _hard._ He borders the edge of satisfaction for what feels like hours. It feels like a punishment. 

“So good for me,” Dream commends after some time. “So pliant. Perfect for me.”

George hums blissfully, overwhelmed by the pleasure Dream provided. He lets out a loud moan as Dream hits his prostate, sinking further into the mattress, if it were even possible to do so. He gasps for air as Dream hits it again and again from thereon. 

_“Fuck,_ Dream,” George groans. “I’m gonna… gonna come, Dream.”

And curse his supernatural stamina, Dream says to him, “Already? I’ve barely started.”

George can’t tell if he’s teasing or genuine. Time was nonexistent in moments like these, where George was getting fucked into a mattress, or any other surface they relied on for support. His body shakes like a leaf, weak under Dream’s control.

 _“Dream,”_ George mumbles. “I can’t—I need—”

“What, George?” Dream asks. His movements slow, wickedly so, and George groans painfully. “What is it you need? Tell me.”

“I want,” George starts, but his mind is cloudy, unable to think properly. “I want you to… to touch me, Dream.”

“Touch you?” Dream echoes. George imagines a sinful grin is taking up residence on the vampire’s face. “Is that what you want?”

“Yes,” George begs. _“Please.”_

One of Dream’s cold hands travels its way from George’s hip to his cock, wrapping around it. George felt small in the hold of such a large hand as Dream’s, but he didn’t mind in any way. Dream’s thumb brushes over the head of his cock, and George nearly comes right then and there. The linen was already wet with precum.

“Is that what you want?” Dream whispers. “Is that good?”

“Mhm,” George hums. “Perfect, Dream. ‘S perfect.”

Dream continues to stroke George as he carries on thrusting into him, and it isn’t long before George is coming on the sheets, helpless, broken. But even as he does so, Dream continues to press into him, chasing his own high. 

Though, he grants George the mercy of asking first, “Can I continue? Fucking you senseless?”

“‘M already there,” George says. He then adds a desperate and needy, _“Yes.”_

George feels used—though not abused—as Dream continues to render him more and more useless and incoherent, until Dream reaches his own orgasm, finally coming in George after what felt like an amazing, gratifying eternity. An eternity George would gladly suffer through if not for the fact that his sensitivity was much higher than he could manage for long.

Once Dream pulls out and loosens his grip, George falls to the side, breathless. He stares up at the beams that cross the high ceiling, gaze hopping around to different knots in the wood. Dream leans in beside him, close to his ear. “I’ll be back with a rag,” Dream whispers, and he disappears into the dark mansion in an instant.

He’s back shortly, and cleans them both off with care. Though, the sheets are already sullied, so perhaps the effort is fruitless. Not that George was able to bring the words to his tongue, then, to voice his observation. He wasn’t sure he wanted to break the peaceful silence anyways. 

George feels faint, lightheaded, as he often did after such a loss of blood. He had grown used to the feeling, knowing that Dream would never push boundaries or limits, although the vampire could occasionally lose himself. George lolls his head to the side to look up at Dream, who looks back adoringly, if only mildly concerned for George’s current state of being.

Dream brings his wrist to his mouth and bites down to allow for his strange version of blood to drip out, bringing the wound to George’s lips. “It’ll help,” Dream says, though George already knew that.

Dream’s blood is much different than George’s—Dream had told him it’s not technically _blood,_ but George simply called it that for a lack of a better word. It’s sweet, and just as intoxicating as the feeling as Dream drinking from his own veins. It’s rejuvenating, and already George begins to feel better. More stable. Conscious.

And yet, George still couldn’t bring himself to like blood. Be comfortable with it. He couldn’t ever understand how Dream lived like he did, deprived of human cuisine for hundreds of years now. It was an ironic thought, however, considering the act George was currently committing.

George is stopped by rapid healing, and Dream pulls his wrist from George’s mouth. Dream trails a thumb over his lips, wiping the remaining blood away. Dream cups his face, and George leans into the touch, his eyelids fluttering shut. The coolness of Dream’s palm should not have been as comforting as it was against George’s skin, but George couldn’t help it.

“Sun’s coming up soon,” Dream announces suddenly, breaking the quaint silence. “Better get some rest, George.”

George huffs out a half-hearted, tired laugh. “Sun won’t kill you, Dream.”

Dream chuckles, slipping away from George. George opens his eyes again, to see Dream sitting at the edge of the bed. George observes the litany of scars that litter his back, from battles centuries ago. Dream had once told him that the injuries that had healed when he had still been human would forever remain etched into the pale expanse of his skin. George often enjoyed tracing the raised slivers from time to time, asking about their origins. Dream had led a very interesting life, both past and present.

“I know,” Dream says. “But you should sleep.”

George props himself up on his elbow. Dream turns his head, the sharp cut of his jaw and nose highlighted by the dimming moonlight. The sun does creep up, though not quite visible yet in the dark, indigo sky. A soft smile tugs at Dream’s lips. 

“I have to write the letter,” George tells Dream.

“Can it not wait until later?” Dream teases.

George hums. “It can if you join me in bed,” he proposes.

Dream seems to contemplate the offer a moment. Dream didn’t really _sleep,_ but George would be grateful for his presence regardless. “Perhaps a change of sheets first,” Dream says. _“Then_ maybe I’ll join you.”

George drops his elbows, tucking his hand under his cheek, cozying further into the pillows and mattress. “I can wait.”

“You’d wait forever,” Dream argues lightly. He stands, turning to face George.

“Well…” A smile creeps up George’s face, content. Happier than he could have been still hunched over a desk, scribbling nonsensical words addressed to an old friend by sad candlelight. “You’re not wrong.”

**Author's Note:**

> sorry for such a vague description of the smut, haven't done this in a while lmao
> 
> let me know what you think :)
> 
> \+ [twitter](https://twitter.com/crimsvn2) :)


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